But it's Better if You Do
by WhoCaresAboutPeopleBooksExist
Summary: Names aren't important. Not when you're drunk. And he was drunk. And he was pretty sure she was as well. (Rogan AU one-shot)


**A/N: **I just finished a book about a girl's first year at university and while there was not nearly as much cursing and sex in that (nor in my life), I felt the need to escape back to freshman year just for a few thousand words. And this is what you get for it. An M-rated Rogan one-shot that is AU and probably weird. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer: As always, I own absolutely nothing. Nothing...**

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><p><strong>"When she stood up the prince looked into her face, and he recognised the beautiful girl who had danced with him. He cried out, 'She is my true bride.'" <strong>

**Cinderella | The Brothers Grimm**

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><p><span><strong>But it's Better if You Do<strong>

"Don't be an idiot, son." Those were his father's famous words. Almost like his motto. Didn't matter what the context was, Mitchum always told Logan the same thing over and over again, year after year, disaster after disaster.

Mitchum pretended not to care about Logan, and that made Logan hate him more. Made him want to lash out more, break more rules. Logan wanted to be an idiot thanks to Mitchum. Thanks to the way his father loved him, but tried desperately not to.

No father should be like that. Logan, if he ever became a father, if he ever settled down enough, would make it a point to love his child. To make sure his child knew how much he loved him. Because it damaged him so much, too much, almost to the point of no return, knowing that his dad, half his creator, half his DNA, loved him and couldn't stand the thought of it. Logan always felt that love made you weak, that Mitchum was the weakest man on earth. Maybe that was why he hit Logan, because he was weak and only weak people prey on other weak people.

Logan loved Mitchum, and hated himself for it. Mitchum loved Logan, and hated himself for it. So they loved and hated each other, throwing punches left and right, slapping belts across stomachs until welts blew up to the size of balloons. But balloons that never popped, balloons that only ever went down slightly, day by day, until maybe they disappeared forever. Logan had too many scars on his belly.

Tonight, Logan wanted to be an idiot.

Which was nothing new. He was the life of The Life and Death Brigade. All the rich, snobby, loose college chicks wanted him and he'd be damned if he didn't want them too. Never for too long. One time, maybe twice if they pleased him that much. He never could stand a talker, though. If they spoke too much, or in too much of a high pitched voice, he'd throw them away and go find another one who didn't talk so much, or whose voice wasn't so annoying.

In a rush of hormonal, drunk energy, he'd bamboozle their shirts off. They'd grapple at the hem of his and lift it off his head, his blonde hair getting ruffled and set out of place. When they'd look at him, their too big eyes would travel down his chest and to his stomach. Their eyes would widen even more when they saw the scars, but no one ever touched them. Their hands moved past them like they were teeth and not scar tissue. Sometimes they asked questions: how'd you get them? what were you doing? is it a cool story? was your dad an asshole like mine?

He never answered. He always just kissed their throats until they couldn't talk anymore.

They still never touched his scars.

Her voice wasn't annoying. She didn't look like she belonged there. Her eyes were beautiful and blue. Or at least he thought they were blue. She was batting them so much and the lights were so dim and he was so fucking drunk that maybe they were grey or green or purple or neon pink. Her cheeks were flushed and she giggled a lot: drunk.

He'd seen her around, he thought. Maybe. She didn't stand out too much. Blue eyes, maybe. Brown hair, that was a given, that sat straight down on her shoulders. It looked like no curling iron on the planet could make the straight strands of her hair curl. She must hate that.

Logan was caught up in the way she grabbed his hand. They hadn't even been talking, or drinking together, when she suddenly appeared just as a Kanye song came on. They danced. Well, dancers wouldn't call it dancing. Drunk college frat kids would call it dancing. He would call it having sex with a girl but forgetting that he needed to take his clothes off to actually have sex.

There were random flashes of lights, floozy girls lifting their tops and bearing their breasts, the lying bastards on the other end of the cameras promising, stupidly and untrustworthily promising, that no one else would see the photos. No one else would know. But they were lies. Because they were lying bastards. Tomorrow, everyone would see the photos. And the girls, the girls whose heads were thumping, whose brains were trying to leak out their ears because last night they got too drunk, the girls who were wondering what the fuck happened, would walk outside and see fingers pointed at them, laughing pointed (did laughter point?) at them.

When those flashes would appear, Logan got a better look at the girl dry humping him. She was short, but he wasn't tall. So she was extra short. She had on a blue top that cut off just before reaching her navel. A tight skirt wrapped around her legs, but not her knees. No shoes covered her toes. He wondered if he'd stepped on them yet. She was probably too drunk to feel anything.

Before the song ended, before he even knew her name, before he even knew the colour of her eyes, she was dragging him away from the dance floor. It wasn't really a dance floor. It was more of a living room that had no furniture except a love seat, a love seat currently occupied by a couple not afraid of people seeing them practically fucking. Either way, she was dragging him away from it. From all the sweaty bodies getting too close for comfort. From the at least one girl getting tipsy not because she drank too much but because someone, some guy just waiting, watching, had slipped something in her drink. From the floozy girls showing their breasts to the boys tonight, the world tomorrow.

Her hand was soft in his, so incredibly soft and warm and smooth and comforting. He found himself wanting to cry at how it felt to hold her hand. She rushed them up the stairs of the frat house, knocking down several people on their way. Rooms were empty, most people weren't afraid of fucking for the world to see, so she went into the one farthest away from all the people. Maybe she was afraid of them seeing. Maybe he was her dirty secret. He could deal with that. Besides, he didn't know her name. Or her eye colour.

And then she was kissing him. No, not kissing him. Devouring him. She was devouring his mouth with her own. Her lips were soft and slippery, kind of like her hands in the way that they made him want to cry. Her palms were pressing against his chest and she was pushing him, pushing him back and back and back until his own back hit something hard. It was a wall. A wall that had probably had many backs hit it in the past, many boys roughed up against it.

His back felt violated. It scraped against the wall as she pushed him further, almost willing him to fall through the wall and into the next room. Only there was no next room. There was only the outside to fall into. And the outside was scary. The outside was unknown and cold and damp.

So Logan focused instead on the way this girl's hands smoothed up and down his shirt thousands of times while her mouth kissed - no, devoured - his until she finally got the courage to lift the shirt up. She didn't move to take it off, she just let her hands trace his newly exposed skin, all the while moving her lips against his. Her tongue tangled around his, but not like he was used to. It felt like warmth when it slipped through his mouth.

Her fingers had taken to dancing along his scars. He kept wondering if she knew they were scars, but she kept going over them and he doubted she didn't know. No girl had ever touched his scars. Not even his mother. She always shied away from them. Honor was too scared of them. For fuck's sake, he was too scared of them. And so was every other girl he'd ever let see his scars. So when this girl, this stranger, started to caress his marred skin, he felt himself shiver at her touch and then felt her smile against his mouth.

The tissue on his stomach was more wrinkled than smooth, the nerve-endings either super sensitive or dulled to the point of insanity. Her fingernails would graze even the dullest part of his stomach and he would pulse. He would pulse everywhere. As if there was some sort of pulsing thing hidden in him.

The world 'love' sprinkled into his brain several times as she trailed fire along his belly. He loved the way it felt. Intimate, but not scary. Why wasn't it scary? No one touched his stomach. No one. He thought that when someone would, his mind would replay how the scars got there. But in actuality, he couldn't stop thinking about how it felt like she was washing away the memories, replacing them with how she was touching him. Like she was making it all better. Even if she didn't know it.

And then she was tugging his shirt up. It slid easily off, blowing his hair up. She giggled again (drunk.) and played with his hair for a second before crashing their faces together. Then it went crazy. All the emotions, the sensations: heightened. Like Logan had never had sex before. Like he'd never been touched before. In a way, that was true. No one had ever touched him like she was touching him. No one ever made him feel so safe, so needed, wanted, adored. (drunk.)

He was wasted. She was shitfaced. They were perfect for each other.

Her eyes skated down his chest, to his belly, to the bulge in his pants. She blushed. Then tugged his trousers down, then his pants. He was naked before she even had her top off. Logan changed that quickly, moving up to her and ripping, literally ripping, the flimsy fabric covering her chest. No bra. Sexy. Beautiful. His.

No, not his. Not for more than tonight. But tonight, he guessed, tonight, yeah, his.

She seemed taken aback. Like she wasn't expecting this to happen. Like all she'd wanted was for them to go upstairs and for him to get naked and then for her to walk away laughing because she wanted to make a fool out of him. Did she have a camera? Was she one of those people, one of those bastards? But then her eyes, her blue eyes, he was sure of that now, blew up and she pressed their chests together. Logan let out a groan, a growl really, when he felt her breasts brush against him. They were small and round and perfect and his. Tonight, his.

The girl began sucking his chin, rolling her tongue against his stubble as Logan tried desperately not to prematurely ejaculate all over this poor girls' skirt.

He tore at the skirt too, and it billowed down like a wave on to the floor, flooding his feet with silkiness. No underwear. Whore? No, his. Tonight, his.

She didn't read like a whore. Like one of those floozy's who become the subject of teen suicide talks. She read like a young woman who wanted to get lucky tonight. And she'd chosen him to get lucky with. And that made him feel special. A sick, fucked-up kind of special. Special all the same. Special, no one made him feel special.

He could tell she wanted him, could almost smell her arousal. Honey mixed with some sweet lemony scent. It made his head dizzy. Was that good or bad? He couldn't tell.

He traced his finger around her thighs for a moment, enjoying how she whimpered in his ear and then bit down on his neck like a vampire.

There were no such thing as vampires though. People did like to suck blood, but they were freaks, not vampires.

They were rich men who could walk in the light without worrying about burning up or sparkling like some fucking gay fairy. His father was a vampire, but he sucked happiness in place of blood. Sometimes Logan wondered if his father would burst in the sunlight. Maybe that's why he never left the office. Except for when he wanted to come home and beat Logan to a bloody pulp.

Never mind, Mitchum was a blood-sucking vampire as well as a happiness-sucking vampire.

This girl, though. She wasn't a vampire. She filled him with something instead of taking it, sucking it, away. And he didn't like it. Almost didn't like it.

But he loved it.

When his fingers grazed the innermost part of her thighs, the apex right there where moisture and need mixed to create a combination of different, fantastical feelings, she let out a shuddering breath and collapsed into Logan's chest like she'd been put under some sleeping spell. But she was still breathing, heavily and panting-like. Like a dog. Or a cat. An overweight cat caught up a tree with no way down in the middle of summer.

He kissed her neck where it was exposed to his lips and it stunted her almost-not-breaths even more, to the point he was worried about strangling her without ever placing his fingers around her neck.

That would be awkward to tell the police.

The fleshy and wet space his fingers teased became even fleshier and wetter as he moved quicker. He licked her neck and she moaned. He bit her neck and she cried. He traced his tongue, twirling it around her pulse point, and buried his fingers inside her flesh and she clamped down around his fingertips, a scream, breathy and moany, cascaded out of her lips.

It was quick. She was desperate. Or maybe he was just that good.

A smile found its way to his lips when she staggered away from him, pushing against him again in her drunken, euphoric haze to the bed.

He was a weak puppy dog in this instance. A freshly produced virgin, just discovering the joys of womanhood. For a moment, his first time went through his mind. Sweaty bodies, fake moans, 'oh, god logan you feel so good', 'fuck, fuck, fuck', obscene slapping of hips, coming way too soon, leaving way too late, never looking her way again.

The girl climbing on top of him right now pulled his thoughts away when she leaned in to kiss him. It was a sensual kiss, drawn out and all heavyset with emotion. It rippled through him, snaking down his throat and into his lungs, filling him with some sort of life. Her life maybe. It felt weird. Different and new.

She asked about protection. Perhaps she wasn't drunk. Logan nodded and fumbled around, his hand blindly searching for a bedside table. He found one, pulled the drawer open, and grabbed a condom. She asked how he knew it would be there. He laughed and said it was a frat house. She laughed too. He liked that sound.

Once he was covered and she was ready to envelope him in the warmth of her, she stopped suddenly. Her hands gripped his waist and she looked at him, her blue eyes staring right through him as she hovered above him, that pulsing part of him aching for her. He was about to ask if something was wrong when she just as suddenly bent her knees and filled herself up with him.

He couldn't think anymore. He couldn't tell where he was or where she was or if they were even two different people. His body was alive now, like he'd been dead for years and years and was only now being woken up. By a drunk girl fucking him for one night and one night alone.

This was bad. He wasn't supposed to feel. "Don't be an idiot, son." He could hear Mitchum in the room, hear him as this girl went up and down, up and down.

Don't feel, Logan. It's not worth it.

Maybe he'd die again when she left. When he came inside of her but not really because there was a condom wrapped around his dick protecting her from him. He convinced himself that would happen, he would die when it ended.

Right now, right in the moment, he forgot about dying. He focused on living. On living with her, because of her. The way she panted when she went up and then whooshed when she came down made him want to smile, but smiling was painful because everything felt so good all he could do was groan and stare open-mouthed.

She reached out and pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his hair. Muffled cries, either of pain or satisfaction, ran through his ears. Her voice sounded distant. But she was there, on top of him, going up and down and tightening her muscles around him every now and again.

Logan dug, painfully dug, so painfully dug that she cried out and it wasn't muffled, his fingernails into her sides, feeling them pop into her skin. He pulled her, made her go up and down faster, making her muscles tighten more and more.

Connection was a weird thing for Logan. He never looked a partner in the eye, never let them touch his scars, never let them lead, never stayed the night. It meant emotion and feeling and needing. Three things Logan had no time for.

Connection was weird, but not with her. She pulled away from Logan and sat there still for a moment. Logan twitched inside of her, wanting to keep going, afraid of why she was suddenly not moving anymore. Was something wrong? Did he hurt her? Was she being a fucking tease? He couldn't deal with a fucking tease. He couldn't deal with her, period. But her as a fucking tease? Even worse.

She wouldn't stop looking at him, her blue eyes wouldn't stop staring at him, glancing between his eyes like she wanted to get to know him, but like she already knew everything about him. And he thought about it, about letting her know him. For a moment, every secret, every hidden skeleton, every murky shadow nearly tumbled off Logan's tongue as she sat still with him twitching inside of her.

Then she pressed her chest against him, still not moving, and he could feel her heart. It was moving so fast against her ribcage that it muted out the sound of his heart. He couldn't tell which heart he was feeling anymore. It made his speed up. Their hearts were mingling, like their breaths. They were connected.

He'd always thought of sex as just fucking. Lovemaking was weird. Just as weird as connecting. Because he got it, all right? You have to "connect" on an anatomical level to fuck, but you didn't have to truly connect to have sex. That's not what he fucked for, not for a connection. And yet, with this girl resting her hip bones on his, grazing her nipples against his, beating her heart in time to his, he kind of understood it.

Only kind of.

Sex meant taking something and giving something. Always. No matter how much he wanted to deny that fact, it was a given. A natural occurrence because the god that created them hated them all and wanted them to not have fun without consequences. He may not remember every one of his "partners" names, but he remembered what it felt like to be with them. It was an eerie feeling, like he was carrying around a piece of them with him wherever he went, whenever he was with another person. And that made him wonder if they felt the same way when they were randomly walking, or when they were with another person.

He didn't want this girl to go and fuck some other guy some other night with a part of his soul sucked up inside of her. He didn't want to let go of her and go fuck some other girl only to have a piece of her soul sucked up inside himself. He wanted it to be her and him. Forever.

God, he was drunk. He was fucked-up drunk.

She'd started moving again, her fingers now dancing funny trails along his scars. It felt good, like it was helping along. Sometimes it hurt when she touched one of them, but it was quickly replaced by a feeling of elation. Like he'd just conquered the world.

He was surprised it lasted as long as it did. At least thirty minutes of bodies obscenely slapping, of muffled and not-muffled cries. Of tugging hair and trailing scars. She went first, as always was the case. He was a sort of gentleman when it came to fucking. He helped them finish then helped himself finish. But he followed too quickly behind her. The second her inner walls decided to bunch around him, he shuddered as if a great wintery breeze came through and spilled his secrets inside of her but not inside of her because he was wearing a condom. Half inside of her. Half of his secrets.

They sat still for what felt like hours, days. All in silence. Neither wanted to move, both wanting nothing more than to be utterly lethargic. He caught her eye when she finally moved off of him. She looked happy. And scared. And totally taken aback. Like she hadn't expected any of it to happen. None of it.

He broke another rule that night. He sweet-talked her into crawling in a strangers bed with him. He wrapped a sheet around them and then wrapped his arms around her. His face rested on her belly, his hands tucked either side of her waist, fingers meeting by her spine. She was tiny. How had he not broken her? Maybe he had.

He kissed her tummy, it was slimy with sweat. It felt nice to kiss, so he did it again. Then he stopped, his mind screaming, wondering what the hell had gotten into him. And then he fell asleep. He fell asleep with a stranger in his arms and his lips attached to her stomach like he was a blood-sucking vampire.

He hoped he wouldn't burn in the sun.

-O-

He didn't burn in the sunlight. He shone in the sunlight. But not like a fucking gay fairy.

Logan cracked his eyelids, everything about last night rushing back to him like a punch to the brain. He felt sluggish; the alcohol. The sex. No, the lovemaking.

His arms weren't wrapped around a female body anymore. Her arms were wrapped around him. Her head rested on his chest, her eyes flicking up to his. They were both awake. Was it time for the walk of shame?

No, he wasn't ashamed of this. He wanted it to happen again. And again. And again. On a regular basis. He wanted to get to know her.

"Morning," she whispered against his skin, almost like she wasn't talking to him at all but rather the wispy fluff of blonde chest hair he adorned.

He cracked a grin. He couldn't help himself. "Hi." God, his voice was raspy.

The girl giggled (still drunk?) and bowed her head away from his eyes, a blush imprinting on his pale chest. Warm and her. Not that he knew her. Anything about her.

They were sheet-less, the white thing piled at the end of the bed. One of them must've kicked it in the night. Logan was suddenly aware of how turned on he was. It was painful.

Another giggle erupted from the girls' throat. Her hair tickled his stomach, his scars. Then she started trailing those scars again. Was she trying to memorise them?

He still wasn't stopping her. He still liked it. He didn't like that he liked it. But that made him feel like Mitchum, so he let her touch them. He let her drag out the memories.

"Would it be too much to ask how you got these?" She asked after moments of silence.

Logan choked, on what he would never be able to say. He looked down at her with his eyebrows planted firmly in his hairline, a look of pure shock on his face.

The girl turned away, ducking from his shocked face. "Sorry, God, sorry. I'm horrible. That was way too intrusive."

Logan then laughed. He just had to. "We had sex last night, I think that gives you the right to ask me at least one personal question." He didn't know where the words came from, but they were out there now.

She looked at him expectantly, still a little bit of worry creasing her forehead. He brought up a thumb to smooth away the lines. She relaxed instantly. So did he.

He would spend forever trying to convince himself the only reason he told her was because she was beautiful and he wanted to see her again. But really, he wanted someone else to know. To understand his pain. And she asked. No one ever asked. No one wanted to know the darkness behind the marks on his precious skin.

All they wanted was his big dick and big bank account.

There was slight trepidation when he began speaking, when he began fully spilling his secrets, no condom in place to blockade them.

"My father," he said gently and she gasped, gripping him tighter like they'd known each other forever. He didn't mind. He felt the same way.

She listened to him go on and on about Mitchum. About how his father hated him, but loved him. Loved him to the point of hating him. He told her stories, brutal ones that made her cringe, and lighthearted ones that made her smile against the skin of his stomach. She started to kiss his scars when a particularly bad story would erupt and he couldn't help the blood that traveled down south. Much like he couldn't help the grins that spread across his face when he looked at her.

Someone knocked on the door after they'd been in the bed with the sun shining gloriously through the window for at least two hours. They didn't answer, just rushed to get dressed. He gave her his shirt and boxers. The shirt went past her thighs she was so small. He pulled on his trousers and they snuck the window open. She leapt down first, flying off the ledge like a fucking bird. He watched her land gracefully on the ground and smiled at her again. She waited for him to hop down. It wasn't far.

Then they ran away, from nothing in particular. Maybe it was from their that-didn't-feel-like-a-one-night-stand one-night-stand. Or from the secrets that were spilled. Or the slices of their souls that had been split.

They had to separate eventually. Her to get clothes and him to get away from her.

"Name," he sighed desperately when she started walking away, his shirt hanging loosely off her bones. God, did he want to slide it off of her.

"Rory." Unabashed, but totally abashed.

"Logan." His smirk made her blush.

She walked a few steps towards him and stood on her tiptoes, her head just under his chin. "Well, Logan, I'll see you at the next frat party." It wasn't a question.

He laughed. "There's a frat party every night."

"Then I'll see you tonight."

And then she kissed the hollow of his throat until he couldn't talk anymore, walking away without looking back. She had no shoes, no bra. Just his shirt that was too big on her. Other people stared after her, but she swayed her hips just for him. He could tell.

He wasn't going to marry her. Hell, maybe all they'd ever be to each other was emotional/fuck buddies. But he'd make the most of it. Connections and soul spilling and all.

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><p><strong>"The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it." ~ Oscar Wilde<strong>

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><p><strong>AN 2: **What didjya think? I was super sick when I wrote this. Infection-ridden sick. Two colds in one month. Not cool. But anyway, did you like it? Would you like more random one-shots? About Rogan? About anyone? I'd be free to write whatever one-shot anyone could come up with. In fact, I'm asking you to send me suggestions for one-shots. They're fun and a good way to get over writers block and severe colds.

The title of this thing is another Panic! at the Disco song. It kind of goes along with the one-shot.

Thanks for reading and if you liked it, thanks for liking it. Feel free to PM me suggestions or whatever.

til next time,

(insert name here)


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